


Strain

by way1203



Series: Bottled In [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Character Study, Child Neglect, Comfort Food, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Exhausted Number Five | The Boy, Exhaustion, Hurt Number Five | The Boy, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Number Five | The Boy Deserves Better, Number Five | The Boy Has Been Through Quite A Lot, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy Needs Sleep, Number Five | The Boy Whump, Number Five | The Boy has PTSD, Number Five | The Boy-centric, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Sleep Deprivation, Stressed Number Five | The Boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26573614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/way1203/pseuds/way1203
Summary: Five held out his fists, trying but failing to produce anything other than sporadic blue sparks. Only twenty-four hours, give or take, in his teenage body and he'd already managed to deplete his powers. He needed food, water, coffee, frosting—hell, he'd eat a spider right now if it crossed his path—justanythinghis body would even remotely accept as energy so he could blink out of here.OrFive had a long journey home after Hazel and Cha-Cha left him hiding behind the register in the store.
Relationships: Dolores & Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy), Dolores/Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy), Number Five | The Boy & Allison Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Ben Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Klaus Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Luther Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & The Hargreeves (Umbrella Academy), Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) & Everyone
Series: Bottled In [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974742
Comments: 22
Kudos: 332





	Strain

**Author's Note:**

> This started because the look on Five's face in _Run Boy Run_ around 52 minutes in as he sat behind the register was just utterly heartbreaking. I wanted to explore what happened after Hazel and Cha-Cha left, his energy levels, how he got home, and how he coped the rest of that night. 
> 
> Those who've read my other works know my tendency to have nagging ideas, and this is one of them. This is the longest one-shot I've ever written and, now that it's out of my head and typed out, I'm eager to share. Enjoy!
> 
> **TW; mentions of past abuse and neglect, vomiting, and panic attacks.**

"Got him!"

Five stared at Hazel and Cha-Cha from his place beside the register. A crescendo of sirens followed, stealing their attention away for just long enough. Five plopped down on the textured support mat covering the linoleum floor behind the register. He noticed the beams of their tactical lights return to the place where he was a full second ago. Thank fuck he moved.

He waited.

As he clutched Dolores close, his ear trained on his attackers, Five tried to stop the tremor inching its way up through his spine and reverberating down his fingers. He took shallow breaths, his heart beating in rapid thumps from all of his running, blinking, dodging, and jumping in quick succession. The sweat dripping down his forehead chilled his body despite the heat constricting his throat and searing his cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to loosen his tie and unbutton his collar but he couldn't. Hazel and Cha-Cha were _right there_ , and if he so much as breathed too deeply, let alone moved, they'd know he actually _hadn't_ managed to blink away.

Seconds felt like days. They knew Five was down here—they had to have known. He looked down at Dolores in his arms. He'd almost done it. He'd almost managed to save them both. He offered her a silent apology and took this moment to mentally say his goodbyes. Despite his best efforts, Hazel and Cha-Cha had somehow managed to grow individual brain cells and actually figured out that he hadn't teleported. They knew. They knew. _They knew._

He closed his eyes to slow the hammering of his heart against his chest.

"The bastard jumped again," Hazel said, exasperated.

Five sucked in a quiet breath. Thank fuck for Hazel's simple I-don't-have-the-energy-for-this-shit self. He'd been growing less bloodthirsty with each passing job as of late, and tonight Five couldn't be more appreciative of his ex-colleague's increasing apathy.

"Come on, let's go," said Cha-Cha.

He didn't dare move. Despite the Commission assassins being done-in for the night from trying to chase him and opting to leave, Five knew better than to take their verbal declaration of their exit to heart. He knew Hazel and Cha-Cha were the king and queen of fake-outs. Their victims would look one way, expecting an attack from the back, and receive a bullet in the front. He knew they could still very well be in the store just waiting for the moment he decided to stand up so they could shift this game of _Cat-and-Mouse_ into a more violent version of _Whack-A-Mole_. After all, they'd had him cornered.

It wasn't until he heard their footsteps recede toward the back of the store and out that he finally felt something akin to relief.

 _I'm safe?_ Five thought, his back planted in the space between the two registers. He looked down at the floor, listening over the sirens for the assassins. His eyes flit up to the spot where he'd been standing, expecting one of those masks to appear. But that didn't happen. Nothing happened because they were truly gone. Five had kept his left fist clenched beside Dolores's outstretched hand, his veins and muscles tightening around his bones. Careful, as if unsure if he even should, he uncurled his index and middle fingers and relaxed his thumb. What if they came back? Hopefully, they wouldn't, but he'd be ready if they did. He cast a gentle gaze down at Dolores, anxiety and relief mixing into a sensation he couldn't name. They survived. _We're safe._

They almost weren't safe.

The realization seeped into Five's consciousness like the apple juice Luther spilled on the rug when they were seven. Something swelled in his throat making it hard for him to swallow. He knew the prickle inside his lids and the tingle around his nostrils that made them flair. They'd had him; lights trained on him and ready to shoot as he stared back at them with wild eyes. He wondered if they could see how spent he'd been. He was certain they could. If it hadn't been for the police showing up and distracting them for a split second with their sirens, Five easily would've been dead.

He panted, his spine quivering. He gulped to steel himself and balled his fist again. He couldn't afford a lot of things in the apocalypse, but tears just happened to be one of the most expensive luxuries of them all. It depleted his internal salt and water levels and made his head hurt almost to the point of migraine, not to mention it made him think through all the shit he actually had to cry about—which, pre-apocalypse, was enough to make him emotionally overwhelmed and have a full-blown breakdown, never mind everything that happened after he'd jumped there. Crying hadn't exactly been an option in the Commission either. He was too busy and he'd grown too callous, too numb to the tasks of taking lives.

It wasn't until he was back in this body, back with his family, back in this timeline where they were safe and breathing (for now), that he'd even felt the urge to cry. And it just so happened that that particular urge had been spurred by this particular moment. Faced with his body's attempt to cry for the first time in longer than he wanted to admit, Five adjusted his hold on Dolores and gave a deep sigh.

Force of habit from all those years of apocalypse survival and Commission executions mixed with thirteen years of growing up in the Academy like soap and blood swirling down the drain after his missions. He couldn't do this right now. Five focused his efforts on suppressing what mysteriously felt like an impending sob. He needed to get out. There wasn't time to cry and, if he were completely honest, he wasn't quite sure exactly when he'd actually be able to let himself cry without impeding his mission of preventing the end of the world.

New determination filled Five. He gathered himself and decided to move just as the doors began to rattle. He needed to jump out of here. He was running out of time (a predicament that seemed to be a common occurrence as of late). Five held out his fists, trying but failing to produce anything other than sporadic blue sparks. Another attempt earned him fruitless waves. He took a deep breath, then another, and tried again.

He received nothing in return. The shaking throughout his body only worsened.

Well, _shit_.

Only twenty-four hours, give or take, in his teenage body and he'd already managed to deplete his powers. He needed food, water, coffee, frosting—hell, he'd eat a spider right now if it crossed his path—just _anything_ his body would even remotely accept as energy. Not wanting to draw attention to himself by entering the aisle, Five searched under the registers for any type of food or candy. Surely the poor retail workers who stood here day after day left something here he could eat.

He found this part of his power bittersweet.

It was nice that he could eat pretty much anything and never worry about his weight since his powers mixed with his metabolism and burned through everything he ate at a rather rapid pace. He didn't even have to be using them, just their inert presence in him proved to be enough to keep him burning through calories with little effort. However, it also meant that his body, and thus his powers, relied more heavily on energy and sleep than his siblings. It was why he consumed foods that would give him large amounts of energy like peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches or fudge nutters.

It was why the apocalypse became a particularly special type of hell—his powers didn't take kindly to the food insecurity and his almost constant state of near starvation.

It was why his particular brand of poison was black coffee, whose high caffeine content meant steady energy levels without the sluggishness that came with digestion nor the nausea after performing so soon after eating. He learned during his time in the Commission that any amount of sugar, milk, creamer, or other typical add-ins only made his body burn through it faster, whereas drinking it black typically allotted him a few extra jumps.

It was why his assigned nannies—all four of them because the pre-assigned three wasn't enough to handle the task that was infant and toddler Number Five—remained with him longer than those assigned to the rest of his siblings.

It was why Five's eating habits and his powers became a rather early issue in the Hargreeves household. He was, after all, the first of his siblings to have his powers manifest (Luther being second and Klaus third, once they realized in later years the true cause of his screaming and crying at odd hours of the day).

At fifteen months, Five was thinner than he should have been. He drank more water and milk than his siblings and always seemed to be hungry. He often cried and whined until he received another bottle or additional snacks after scheduled mealtimes. He also became fussy rather easily and his extremities shook without cause throughout the day. Suspecting diabetes, they monitored his blood sugar for any concerning irregularities. However, after examining the cameras, it appeared that Five would accidentally blink himself all over the nursery wing with any deep contort of his face once or twice a day, causing him to use a significant amount of energy for a baby and leading to his seemingly random instances of non-diabetic hypoglycemia.

Extra feedings every second hour became part of Number Five's new routine and his tremors ceased. The colic-worthy crying spells also stopped, much to the relief of his nannies, as did the moments when he'd have mini fits of frustration before he blinked. Unfortunately, the reality of Number Five being found in the arms of a nanny with a bottle in his mouth, napping in his crib from having tired himself out after accidentally teleporting, or eating dry Cheerios on a play mat bothered Reginald to no end. It interfered with his monitoring of each child and demonstrated a new instance of yet another one of the extraordinary children deviating from his rigid schedule and expectations.

Five later learned that his father found his coping mechanisms evidence of The Boy's lack of control over his extraordinary gifts and thus extreme weakness. The extra formula, diaper changes, naps, and attention equated to coddling—something that his father planned to undo as Five grew older. Number Five, through no fault of his own, was dubbed by Reginald as the _neediest_ of the children next to Number Four, who seemed to be in poor health with ease due to a faulty immune system. This only became more true as concern shifted from Five's hunger and energy to his weight. They anticipated him to be heavier with so many extra feedings. When Five remained underweight, it became even more apparent the ways in which his metabolism and powers combined. He'd been given vitamin supplements to help him grow, but still required extra portions in his sippy cups and on his plate.

Despite it being unavoidable for Five, he was treated as though he'd chosen his extraordinary abilities, the way they affected his body, and their reactions to his food intake. He recalled one distressing instance when he and Klaus were being fed together in a room away from their siblings as they both recovered from colds. Their father called their nannies into the hall and he overheard him refer to Number Four and Number Five as the _"defective children"_. He didn't hear the nannies, but he did hear Reginald refer to his sons using the words _"utterly damaged"_ and _"broken"_.

He did everything he could from that day on to not be _broken_.

He didn't want to disappoint his father or make him think of him as _weak_.

The older Five became, the better he was able to control his powers, and the more understanding he gained about just what, how much, and how often he needed to eat to adapt to his abilities. He remained borderline underweight, but there was little that could be done given that his powers relied so heavily on his energy. Reginald used this time to exact his plan to undo the years of so-called coddling. He neglected to adhere to Five's peak, deciding the only way for him to exceed his arbitrary limits was by breaking them with repeated practice. Five suffered—his powers, his body, his _mind_ , all abused to prove a point that his supposed limits only existed in his mentality. Five's claims that his energy levels and food intake had anything to do with his powers was both folly and childish, according to his father. This bothered Five because he knew that Reginald knew that it absolutely wasn't folly, that he really _couldn't_ use his power without rest or fuel. But no, his father took it upon himself to feign disbelief in some twisted game of gaslighting to force Five to push his abilities. Thus Five made it his mission to stick it to his father whenever he could, becoming much more of a pompous little shit than before.

What bothered Five the most were _the days_. The ones when he was so depleted that he lost consciousness on the training room floor while waiting for their father to be gone long enough that it was safe for two of his siblings, or even just Luther, to carry him to bed or the infirmary for an IV. The ones when Reginald refused him food for a day or two and forced him through test after test, urging Five to do better, to stop being weak and teleport (which he never managed to do because he physically _couldn't_ with nothing, not even water, in his system). The ones when he vomited in the bathroom, his temples throbbing, while Vanya and Ben sat with him because he'd pushed himself too far. The ones when somewhere in the back caverns of his mind he actually believed the man he called _father_ and would do anything to prove that he could control his power. He had to prove he wasn't worthless or weak or _defective_.

But it was difficult, nonetheless, because his powers were his greatest strength and his greatest weakness—or so he'd been repeatedly told. And one could only hear negative things about themselves for so long before starting to take them to heart.

Forced to meet Reginald's demands on his limits, Five lived on peanut butter and jelly, bananas and granola in yogurt, and macaroni and cheese as snacks between ages six and eight. Later, he was seen eating apples and other handheld fruits every few hours. Reginald eventually stopped caring about Five's eating habits. The patriarch's sights focused on exacting a different brand of torture on his other _"defective"_ child to strengthen his abilities in the mausoleum. However, he still managed to find time to push Five to his brink. The peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches became a staple when he was eleven. When they left for missions, he'd taken to accepting a handful of candy Grace offered him, keeping it in his blazer pocket in case they encountered a grueling mission (a habit that failed to stick after years without sugar in the apocalypse).

But all of that was in the past, and all of those were the experiences that should have led to Five being able to adapt at this moment. He shouldn't have been struggling. He should have been okay. Instead, he wasn't.

Instead, the last cup of coffee he had was about three hours and twenty-seven minutes ago, and he'd already used up the energy brought on by the caffeine burst.

Instead, the last time he'd eaten anything was probably around four that afternoon. Even then, it wasn't anything that would have stuck to him enough to make a difference.

Instead, his pockets were empty save for the eye.

Instead, he was scrambling. Scrambling against time, against the apocalypse, against Hazel and Cha-Cha, against the people entering the store. Scrambling through baskets and bins searching for provisions.

He could hear Reginald scolding him for his current state.

_Despite numerous trainings, you still show significant weakness, Number Five._

"No," whispered Five. The years of mental abuse always had a knack for seeping into his wits when he was at his most vulnerable. He tossed aside a roll of paper towels and grabbed another bin marked **Go-Backs** in Sharpie ink.

_Grow up! You have no one to blame but yourself, Number Five! Perhaps if you'd prepared properly for this endeavor, you would have successfully evaded the enemy. Instead, you went out without forethought and failed to maintain an adequate amount of energy as you have been trained to do. You have failed to keep basic necessities on your person._

_You are a disgrace. Your power contains an Achilles heel which you refuse to acknowledge and rectify. Your limits are far too apparent. You make yourself obvious in your weaknesses, behaving like a callow brat._

_Your energy is your responsibility, Number Five. No one shall take pity on you for losing consciousness. You are dead weight to the team. Ineffectual! Should you pass out again, the fault is your own. Perhaps then you will learn the importance..._

Five tried to silence the refrains in his mind. He didn't need the reminders of past exchanges with his father mixing with his brain's manufactured versions of the old man chastising him for this moment. Especially not when he was _trying_.

"C'mon, c'mon."

There had to be candy, something, _anything_. Heat slid under his sleeves and another chill crept around his frame. Biting back the coil in his chest of something he couldn't quite place, Five reached into a basket under the counter. Then his hand brushed over it. He gave a quiet sigh of relief.

Two caramel chews.

His unsteady fingers fumbled the wrappers open and slipped them in his mouth. He chewed a few times and swallowed them somewhat whole. The caramels wouldn't amount to enough energy to get him far, but they would at least get him out of the store and help him land somewhere hopefully away from Hazel and Cha-Cha. He could get coffee or water or something else more substantial once he was in the clear. With Dolores comfortably situated in the duffle bag, Five threaded his arm through the strap. Footsteps approached. He was seconds away from being seen. He held out his fists, producing waves of electric blue and azure, and pulled with every ounce of energy he could muster.  
  


* * *

  
Five managed to blink into an alleyway a few blocks over from the Academy. He used that moment to take a deep breath, this one much deeper and more solid than the ones he took in the store. He'd just managed to readjust the pack on his back when his stomach gave a sudden twist. Heat radiated up his neck as the undeniable uncomfortable urge made him hesitate in his steps.

"Oh. _Oh,_ _sh—!"_

Five gave a bubbly belch before leaning over, spewing the candy and remnants of what little nothing was left in his stomach. His hand shot out in a vain attempt to brace himself. Another retch made Five lose his balance. His shoulder hit the brick wall causing him to hiss. The collision hurt far more than it should've, but he couldn't think about that now, not when he found himself puking for the first time in a long time in a wiry thirteen-year-old body to which he was somehow still getting reacquainted. As Five settled, a part of himself that he thought was long-since suppressed made him search his blazer for any sign of vomit.

He had to do his best to keep it clean and free of stains. Dad would be upset if he got filth on it. The shorts and vest could be treated, even the button up, despite its color, could be washed or easily replaced. The blazer, however, couldn't—or so Reginald made them believe. It was a particularly vivid memory of being struck that made his nerves seize about his blazer. Five had been backhanded for accidentally getting vomit on the lapels after being forced to teleport over and over, again and again, in a private training session, until he dropped to his knees and lost control of his bladder while puking so hard he broke a blood vessel. Lying in his own sick and waste, he also received five harsh smacks of his father's cane against his shins and arms for being both feeble and filthy.

It was ridiculous, really. It was as ridiculous as it was then, but even more so now because Dad was dead. Reginald wasn't going to rise up and say anything to Five about getting vomit on his blazer any more than he was going to say something about him not managing to spark up enough energy to evade Hazel and Cha-Cha in the—

Five doubled over and emptied bile onto the pavement.

"Yes, Dolores," he groaned. "I'm fine... Sorry you have to...hear me like this." He paused and chuckled at her reply. "Well, just because you've seen me worse doesn't mean I don't still feel bad about it."

Confident that his stomach had settled enough for him to shift his focus, Five brought a hand to his shoulder, first over the blazer then under. The pads of his fingers both slid against and stuck to his skin. Blood. His blood. When had he been hit? The adrenaline of blinking, jumping, and running through the store to dodge the spray kept his attention away from his loss of energy and any injuries he'd gotten. Another deep breath. He needed to assess. Did anywhere else hurt? No, just his stomach and shoulder. Well, the deep cut in his arm from where he'd dug out that tracking device smarted a bit too. Mostly, though, it was his shoulder. The pain wasn't deep or harsh enough for there to be a bullet inside or outside his shoulder. He wasn't bleeding enough and, other than his vomiting, he wasn't showing signs of shock. Safe to say he'd been grazed.

Though, getting sick in the alley _had_ been concerning. If it wasn't shock, where had that come from?

At first, he considered the jump. Although he'd been sick after blinking in the early days of pushing his powers during training, it only happened occasionally in later years, usually if his body was too taxed or he was way too low on energy. Five adapted and had gotten better at keeping his stomach in check whenever he felt post-blink nausea flood his senses. It couldn't have been the jump. Maybe it wasn't just the jump. But if it wasn't just the jump and it wasn't the bullet graze, then why—

It hit him.

The tremors. They were too great, too large and full-bodied, to just be his power's tell for exhaustion.

He was having a panic attack as well.

Fuck. No. _Absolutely not._ He didn't have _time_ for this. There was an impending apocalypse to sort out, for fuck's sake, and a panic attack was _absolutely not_ on the agenda.

The sweat that coated his skin in the store continued to cool in the late-March air. More beads built at his neck. He swallowed another bout of nausea. He didn't have time to feel fear or anxiety or panic or any combination of the three, let alone experience an attack of them, because the apocalypse was coming, Hazel and Cha-Cha were coming, and he needed his brain calm enough for him to focus on the tasks at hand. He didn't have time for this.

Then again, no one ever really had time for a panic attack, did they? That's why it was called an _attack_. It was meant to be unanticipated and inconvenient. His brain chose this moment to take full advantage of his momentary weakness.

The reality of the situation he'd just narrowly survived crashed around him like that unsound convenience store in the apocalypse—only this time he couldn't dash away to avoid being hit with rubble.

Yes, he'd nearly been terminated by Hazel and Cha-Cha, but he wasn't sure why that suddenly warranted a panic attack. He was the greatest assassin in the space-time continuum—nearly being killed shouldn't have made him suddenly flip out. He wondered if being in this teenage body had anything to do with his reaction.

Five pressed his back against the wall, gasping for air. He didn't have time to feel anything, yet here he was feeling _everything_. No, he had to keep moving. He had to—

—think about Hazel and Cha-Cha being seconds away from blowing a hole in his body.

His heart slammed against his ribs. Jesus, he hated this. His brain had become a record skipping back through the same section of a tune and there was nothing he could do to move the needle away from it.

"Please," he whispered. "Please, stop."

If they hadn't thought that he'd jumped away, they would've easily found him behind the register and killed him. He couldn't jump with his energy so depleted. His limitations were written on his face when they turned their lights on him. With his viable options gone and no weapons, he'd found himself shit out of luck behind that register. He...He would've died. He _should've_ died. He was going to die if they hadn't assumed he'd jumped just as lights surrounded the store. And then where would his siblings be?

Exactly where they were in the first place: without him and unable to stop the apocalypse.

Dead.

He got sick again, retching hard as his stomach pushed and churned. He didn't have time for this. He'd never felt more disgusting. "Shit..." groaned Five. If only he could stop shaking.

It took another minute or two before his heart stopped making him feel as though he'd ingested six shots of espresso. The shaking didn't stop, but it did manage to slow to its usual _too-many-energy-bursts-eat-something-now_ twitch. His breathing calmed.

It was over.

His first panic attack in his thirteen-year-old body since the one he'd had after he realized he couldn't blink himself out of the apocalypse. He hadn't expected to have one so soon after coming back.

He hadn't expected to have one at all.  
  


* * *

  
Five staggered out of the alley. (How did Klaus do this night after night?) He ignored the stare of an old woman who looked far too concerned about his well-being for his comfort level. His feet carried him back to the Academy. The creak of the gate registered in his mind, but it wasn't until the heavy doors clicked behind him that he realized he'd made it back.

Now that he was home, he could properly panic in peace if he wanted to further indulge the attack still rattling around the back of his mind and clinging to his skin in each bead of cold perspiration that had drenched his hair and now seeped through his vest. Gripping the pack over his shoulder, he stumbled toward the staircase. His ankles wobbled halfway through the first steps.

" _Shit!_ "

He looked up, half expecting one of his siblings to comment on his near wipeout. He earned silence in return. Good. No one seemed to be home, or at least they were keeping to themselves because they didn't know he'd returned. They likely assumed he'd just jump to his room. Any other time he would've. Now he was just drained, in need of food and coffee, and maybe a good night's sleep if he felt decadent enough to treat himself after getting those first two things in his system. He could hold Dolores and let the weight of the night sink in. It was nice to see her again after so long. It'd be nice to tell her about everything. Eventually, he wanted to hear her take on his siblings now that they were alive (for now) and around.

By the end of the first flight of steps, he was back to his usual routine of climbing them two at a time. Then he heard voices. Five deflated. So much for peace.

Luther and Allison came into view as he reached the top of the stairs. Something was wrong. He saw it in the way Allison walked and the determined tightness of her expression. Luther looked confused yet concerned, following their sister wherever she led. Five didn't think to ask where they were going or why because he honestly didn't have time to unpack whatever personal drama was likely at the root of their banal problems.

"Five?" Allison seemed beyond disturbed at his appearance. He paused when she caught his eyes. He knew he felt depleted but had he really looked _that_ bad? "What the hell happened to you?"

Ever the leader, Luther immediately added, "Are you okay? Can we help?"

Five thought about accepting his brother's offer, but he couldn't push away the image of him, of most of his siblings, sprawled lifeless and buried in the remains of the Academy. So he did the next best thing: he intercepted Luther's hand when it came toward him, attempting to ignore the memory of its future clutching a glass eye. His siblings looked at him with expectation.

"There's nothing you can do," said Five. The terseness of his tone crumbled thanks to his distressing mental images. "There's nothing any of you can do."

Luther clearly didn't understand. Five watched Allison's expression become even more worried, a sight he couldn't stand for longer than a second and a half. He hurried away before they could ask any more questions.  
  


* * *

  
Once in his room with the door shut, Five finally breathed. Well, he'd been breathing but the shallow and stunted breaths of panic and fight hadn't really counted, now had they? He thought about going downstairs for coffee but the thought of someone seeing him made him stay in his room. His hair clung to his forehead. He needed to shower, brush the taste of vomit out of his mouth, and change clothes.

Dolores matter-of-factly told him to go to sleep. _There's still time before the apocalypse and Hazel and Cha-Cha will hold off for a few hours._

Five removed her from the duffle with a sigh. "I'm sorry, Dolores. I can't sleep yet. I..." he huffed. "I need to follow the clues and stop the apocalypse. You know, save my family. That's...That's more important right now. I'm sorry. I know I need some shut-eye, but not yet."

Dolores countered his deflection, skilled from years with Five's pride. _You may be too scared to sleep but you need to try. Cover your wound, drink some water, and close your eyes for an hour. You'll feel better._

"You know I can't. Sleep brings the nightmares and I'm not exactly looking forward to figuring out any new reactions to how bad and vivid those nightmares can be now that I'm in this body." Five tried to ignore the look Dolores gave him from her place in the chair. He didn't need her judgment right now, even if it wasn't judgment so much as it was genuine concern for his well being.

He knew he was headed for a crash in the coming days anyway. He'd just sleep then. He already ran himself into the ground trying to jump back into this timeline. Once he succeeded, despite his little miscalculation, Five literally hit the ground running. He'd already chatted with his siblings, funeralized their father, taken down Commission assassins at Griddy's, and tried but failed to get Vanya to understand the gravity of his situation and the threat of the apocalypse. And that was just _yesterday_. There was his journey today following the breadcrumbs of that artificial eye where Klaus proved a bit more useful. He wouldn't slow down tomorrow either. He'd been busy and would stay busy until he saved his family.

Five suddenly smelled metal. He brought a hand to his face in time to feel the trickle. He hoped his nose wouldn't ooze too heavily. A harsh sniff sucked the blood up and into the back of his throat causing him to swallow with a groan. Nosebleeds, another winning mark on the _You Pushed Your Powers_ Bingo card. He didn't want to admit it but he'd possibly, maybe, officially reached his limit.

Dolores pressed him about eating. _You have no excuse now, being outside of the apocalypse and all. You need to eat.  
  
_

* * *

  
He wobbled down the stairs, ignoring Dolores's commentary on his inability to walk without swaying. Once in the kitchen, Five sat on a stool and tried to stop the dots in his vision. He noticed coffee in a French press and thought he was hallucinating. A sip told him he wasn't. (But hadn't this kitchen been void of coffee or any semblance of caffeine when he'd dropped into the courtyard? Wait, was that _yesterday_? Jesus. Did one of his siblings buy some and he just didn't realize? What the hell was going on tonight?) He waited five minutes while the swigs helped him regain slight control over his limbs. He finished what was left in the press, poured himself a glass of water, downed it, poured another, then managed to blink to the cabinet for bread, marshmallows, and peanut butter. He sat on the counter, unable to properly seat himself on the stool again.

Five knew he must have looked every bit as feral as he felt. He folded a slice of bread in half and in half again, then dipped it into the jar, scraping it as best he could against the sides to swipe peanut butter on it. The first bite made him sigh in content. Then, at all once, he became ravenous. Shoving bite after bite past his lips, it became clear he shouldn't have waited this long between meals. Five drained half of the water. Common sense told him to slow down or he'd make himself sick. The hunger in his stomach and the need to gain energy for his powers outweighed his caution. With two slices of bread down, he grabbed another two and repeated the process.

He half-expected Mom to come in and remind him to take careful bites to avoid choking. She'd likely tut at him, make him sit at the table, and prepare him two sandwiches as though she hadn't caught him eating out of the jar. The thought of being mothered sent a surge of warmth through his chest. He'd never been much of a mama's boy, that role remained exclusively reserved for Diego, but he really had missed Mom. It'd been so many years since she'd taken care of him. Her gentle touches whenever she helped ease him back to health, her smile, the way she served as a bright spot against the shadows Reginald cast. She was important. And he'd deny it if anyone ever asked him, but the truth remained that Mom meant a lot to him. He wondered if she missed him but shook the thought from his mind. Grace likely only believed he'd been away for a few days, depending on how Reginald had programmed her to acknowledge time as a construct and his absence.

Five finished the water and blinked to the sink for a refill. Once he finished his refill, he licked peanut butter from his left hand, noting the lack of trembling. It would likely stop altogether soon between the sandwiches, coffee, and water. He rifled his right hand around in the bag of marshmallows. Satisfied with the amount in his grasp, he blinked up to his room. He hoped his siblings would leave him alone.

"Happy?" asked Five. "I've eaten."

Dolores seemed pleased. _Happier if you'd rest. You need sl—_

"I'm going. I'm going."

He shoved the marshmallows into his mouth while toeing off his shoes. Five tossed his blazer into the hamper in his wardrobe and got into bed without bothering to change into pajamas. The shower would have to wait until tomorrow. Dolores didn't seem too happy about his decision.

"Need I remind you that I'm opting to go to bed?" Five snapped. He gave a heavy sigh and brought a hand to his forehead. He threaded his fingers through his bangs. "Sorry, Dolores. It's been a long night...which I know isn't an excuse."

She understood. She _always_ understood. Dolores tolerated so much of him. He knew it wasn't fair to her.

His makeshift dinner threatened to come up. His forearm and shoulder decided to throb as well, adding to his cluster of misery. Shutting his eyes, he turned out the light and willed his stomach to settle. Tomorrow was going to be an even longer day. He needed to eventually get his siblings together so they could get their shit together. He needed to perform a stakeout in the morning. Not to mention he'd need to lay low because Hazel and Cha-Cha would still be on his ass. Then there was the little matter of the apocalypse being yet another day closer.

Five's eyelids grew heavy. He'd handle everything. He had no other choice. He needed to figure things out, to make things right. He needed to properly bandage his arm and probably stitch his shoulder. Five pushed at the fatigue turning his muscles into lead. Shit, where was this exhaustion coming from? He supposed evading Commission assassins and the mild panic attack he had after he narrowly escaped them would make him tired. The leap he'd made into this timeline was also a lot. Then there was the fact that he was also still getting adjusted to his teenage body.

Which, wait, didn't teenagers require nearly ten hours of sleep a day?

Five gave an inward groan. " _Shit._ "

He didn't have time to sleep that long, or at all really. There was an apocalypse to stop and his family to save. Then again, he couldn't afford another situation like tonight. He'd almost died. He would've rendered his family defenseless again and all of these decades worth of planning and calculations would've been for nothing.

Five closed his eyes and tried to think. How was he going to stop the apocalypse when he couldn't even maintain enough energy to outrun Hazel and Cha-Cha? How would he save his family when he couldn't even make the right calculations and ended up physically regressed? How could he finally make up for running away and prove that he could protect his family when he couldn't stop himself from freaking out in the alley? How could he pull this off?

Maybe he was fooling himself.

No. No, he wasn't. The only fools were his siblings who couldn't seem to get their sideshow acts together. He'd wrangle them if it was the last thing he'd do—and it probably would be the last thing he'd ever do if he couldn't get them to take him seriously and set aside their bullshit so they could stop the end of the world.

But he could do it. He had no other choice. He already messed it up the first time by not being there. He couldn't afford to mess this up again.

Exhaustion draped over him. Fatigue became a weight he couldn't shake off no matter how many times he shifted on the bed or attempted to busy his mind. To say tonight taxed him would be an understatement. Perhaps he could afford a quick rest. He wouldn't sleep all night, just twenty minutes at the most. Yes, that would be okay for now.

A power nap first. Then he'd get back to work.

**Author's Note:**

> I digressed a bit in the section about Five's upbringing because my mind wouldn't stop thinking about what could have happened to Five considering all of the things Reginald put everyone through. 
> 
> There's a few scenes in Season 2 that are nagging at me to dig into, so those might come next. I have some vignettes and a feel-good/we are family type of fic I’ve been writing as well. Either way, there will be more Umbrella Academy related works to come!


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